Time: 02:12 PM. Monday. First Week of the Semester.
Location: East Bloc – Revolutionary Club Headquarters, Meeting Room.
Sergei Arkhipov, an entirely unremarkable second-year transfer student, has agreed to become the first recruit in nearly two semesters for what is considered one of the most radical clubs at Kalin High.
He currently sits at an old wooden classroom desk, still perched on the same worn stool from his recruitment. The desk creaks, as if eager to fulfill its purpose again after months of neglect, while the stool offers a faint groan beneath him, a mechanical reminder that he has not moved since his so-called recruitment.
Only minutes have passed since he surrendered. Yet the stillness around him feels as though it had been days in detention.
The girls disperse in predictable formation.
Irina collapses into a monobloc chair like a fallen banner and immediately begins vandalizing a campaign sheet—aggression in marker form. A bullhorn melting into fire, or perhaps a pigeon detonating. It is difficult to tell.
Mariya types in feverish bursts, her glasses slipping as she battles what appears to be an overdue avalanche of digital forms. Her fingers strike the keys with the delicacy of a trained bureaucrat fighting for her life.
Svetlana patrols the perimeter in measured loops, hands clasped behind her back, whispering slogans with punctuated precision. Each repetition rises in volume, as if competing against an imaginary crowd.
Natasha sits at the primary desk, quietly adjudicating a folder thick with accumulated Revolutionary documentation. She annotates with the cold efficiency of someone who does not waste ink.
Meanwhile, Liliya remains seated by the door—silent, unblinking, unmoved. If the room were to collapse, she would remain in that exact posture, preserved like evidence.
Then, without warning, the enforcer reaches beneath her table and produces a single sheet of paper.
It is pristine, creased once across the middle, and printed in disciplined red ink that carries the scent of toner and institutional judgment. She places it before Sergei with neither ceremony nor hostility. Simply inevitability.
Revolutionary Club – New Member Declaration and Affirmation of Alignment.
Liliya extends a pen toward him. Her stare does not pressure, threaten, or comfort. It only judges.
Sergei glances from the form to her, then back to the form again. The room continues its quiet chaos behind him.
It reads like a contract. It feels like a warning. It carries the distinct air of someone being compelled to write a will.
He picks up the pen.
At first, the form feels ordinary, like filling out a standard personal information sheet.
Name: He writes it. Year, Track, and Student Number: Straightforward. Other personal information: Acceptable.
Though it is suspicious why the form even asks for a blood type.
For a moment he wonders if it is a mistake—a leftover field copied from some outdated medical template. But the paper is too deliberate, too sharp, too intentional for that. The Revolutionary Club operates like a miniature conscription office; of course they would want biological data. Field injuries. Supply shortages. Emergency donors.
He considers leaving it blank. But the form has no optional fields—every line demands completion. He exhales once and fills it in.
Then comes the next line:
Do you agree to abide by the Revolutionary Charter, known and unknown, written and unwritten?
He pauses, then his eyes narrow.
Unwritten? In what context? What did that even entail?
The potential recruit looks at Liliya once again. Her stare does not soften. Her posture does not shift. She is the definition of judgement preserved in human form.
He checks the box—reluctantly.
The questions grow stranger as he continues.
What do you believe is the greatest weakness of the modern student body?
He taps the pen twice—soft, rhythmic—before writing a neutral answer that reveals little and commits to nothing.
If the system collapses, what role will you serve?
His jaw tightens. He writes something vague about logistical support and hopes that counts as non-threatening.
Do you consent to occasional re-education seminars (light physical conditioning included)?
He pauses longer than he should. The phrase deeply concerns him. He checks the least intimidating option available.
The next question has been crossed out and replaced in red ink with sharp handwriting:
Define loyalty in eight words or less.
He stares at it.
There is a brief pause—just long enough for something unspoken to flicker at the edge of his thoughts, something he does not examine.
Then he writes:
Following through when everyone else walks away.
He stares at the words longer than any previous answer. He does not cross them out.
Eventually, the form reaches its end.
If called upon to speak, will you speak?
If called upon to remain silent, will you remain so?
Sergei is mentally exhausted by now, so he checks both boxes. Not out of agreement, but because there is no third option.
When he lowers the pen, a subtle weight settles across his shoulders, unwelcome and strangely familiar.
Without a word, Liliya retrieves the form. Her footsteps are soft, but the silence around her sharpens as she delivers the document to Natasha.
No praise. No welcome. No acknowledgment.
Natasha reads the form with clinical precision. No raised brow. No frown. Only a single nod, quiet, final, and exact.
The ritual is complete.
What remains is a brief moment of recognition. Two opposing points in a closed circuit, bound more by necessity than by respect.
Liliya returns to her place. After the exchange, she walks away. No comments. No praise. Only confirmation.
From his seat, the recruit watches it all in silence. There is something mechanical about the exchange—it is practiced. As if this scene had happened before. As if Natasha's restrained disapproval had been seen many times, and Liliya's indifference had long been routine.
The form then vanishes into a folder, swallowed as though it had always been part of the record.
He wonders if Natasha will ever read it again, or if the entire ritual is meant not for him, but for the process.
The stool has creaks again as he shifts. The moment settles around him like dust.
Svetlana is already reciting slogans—louder now, pushing each word with theatrical emphasis.
Irina's fingers dance with paint markers, creating what now resembles an armed pigeon declaring open rebellion.
Mariya continues muttering to her screen, her glasses fogging as she corrects some invisible formatting disaster.
Sergei stares at his desk. His palms are damp. The room remains cold, and yet he is sweating.
He is now officially in. Not without paperwork. Not without consequences.
And this time, there is no third box to check.